


Cut Off

by astudyinfic



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Drunk Crowley (Good Omens), Gen, POV Outsider, Pub Scene, Sad Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 17:13:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21122348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astudyinfic/pseuds/astudyinfic
Summary: The bartender had seen people at their worst but no one was worse than the poor chap on his third bottle of whiskey.  He should probably cut the man off before things got too out of hand.





	Cut Off

Far from the busiest bar in London, it attracted a small group of regulars and the occasional Londoner having a bad day. This one? He seemed to be having the worst day ever. Steven, a man who’d been the bartender there for the better part of two decades, frowned when the man signaled for another drink. Another _bottle_. One bottle should have had him unconscious all on its own and yet, he was asking for a third. 

A third bottle of whiskey in as many hours. Steve had never seen someone drink that much ever.

He should cut him off. 

But aside from the fact that he was quietly ranting to himself and clutching a charred book in his hands, he didn’t seem to be any worse for the wear when it came to the drink. He should have been _dead_ not ranting. 

Steve set the bottle next to him, mentally tallying up the bill. It would be one of the highest tabs he’d ever seen if the man was good for the money. This customer was known to him. Steve had seen him here once or twice before but never drinking like this, never ranting to himself. Only one thing could drive a man to drink that much in one sitting. Steve had seen a broken heart or two in his life. It was a job hazard for a bartender. 

This customer had no care for his own well-being and no one there to do it for him. And if he wouldn’t take care of himself, Steve would at least make sure he didn’t drink himself to death. 

He would cut him off. 

After this bottle. Then probably call for an ambulance. If the man could walk, he’d be shocked. 

“I didn’t mean to fall!” the man yelled out, causing several heads to turn and look at him in concern and sympathy. Steve’s head whipped around, certain he’d find the man on the ground. But he hadn’t fallen, still sitting sprawled in the chair in the same position he’d been since arriving. 

He needed to cut him off. 

Having never seen the customer with anyone before, the best he could do was call the police and hope they could track down a friend or relative. 

If he had anyone left. People rarely came here if they had someone out there who cared for them. 

Since arriving, the customer had been whimpering about his angel and a fire and now falling and if anyone was making heads or tails of the story he was trying to tell, they were a smarter man than he. Though, the sharp smell of smoke emanated from his clothes so maybe the fire in the story wasn’t too far off. 

Catching a glimpse of himself in the man’s dark glasses the bartender offered the customer a sympathetic smile and then hurried back to the bar. (Why was he still wearing the sunglasses anyway? Had he forgotten they were on? Considering the amount of alcohol he’d consumed, that seemed likely.). Something about that man was unnerving. He couldn’t put his finger on what the issue was but there was _something_ off about him. 

Maybe it was just the sunglasses. 

When he started talking about some chick named Lucy and a group of guys, Steve made a decision. There was no direction a story like that could go that wouldn’t leave everyone else in the bar uncomfortable. 

It was time to cut him off. 

As he came around the end of the bar to offer to call a cab, the patron’s demeanor changed immediately. He sat up, leaning forward as if there was something in front of him he was trying to see. “Aziraphale?” he gasped and the bartender waited, unsure what to make of this sudden change. If he’d started hallucinating... Steve let out a breath, shaking his head in disbelief.

When the customer started having an entire conversation with the air in front of him, several of the other patrons looked from him to the bartender and back again. No matter how much this guy might need company right now, he was starting to creep out the locals and Steve knew where his best tips came from. 

As he approached cautiously, he watched the man get more agitated and excited. When the man held up a charred book and started going on about souvenirs, the bartender had to pause for a moment to wonder, not for the first time, if maybe the part about the fire at least was true. There had been a lot of sirens not long before the man arrived. 

Still didn’t make it any less strange that he was having a conversation with the thin air. 

He was cutting him off. 

“Excuse me, sir,” Steve said as calmly as he could. He’d been in this business long enough to know to keep a respectable distance, as one never knew when a drunk would react poorly to any interruption. 

The man sat back in his chair, staring at the empty space as if something unbelievable just happened, throwing his arms out to the side. Shaking his head, the drunken customer grimaced for a moment before turning to look at Steve, his face looked remarkably sober for someone who’d just consumed several hundred pounds worth of Scotch. 

While the bartender considered that, the man stood and grabbed his jacket and book. With a nod to the bartender, he tossed some bills on the table and disappeared out the door. While Steve wondered if he should have gone after him, made sure he had a safe way to get home, the man turned the corner and disappeared into the crowd. The bartender reasoned that once he was out the door, he was the city’s problem. 

With a shake of the head, Steve looked at the table and only to be taken aback by what he saw. Not only were all three bottles completely filled, but there had to be a thousand pounds on the table. 

The man was strange, no denying that, but he could deal with strange if it resulted in a thousand pounds in pure profit. He pocketed the money and headed back for the bar, bottles in hand. 

Steve muttered to himself as he went, unsure what just happened but several thousand pounds richer for the ordeal, “Guess I didn’t need to cut him off after all.”


End file.
